


the world is (y)ours

by babybrackish



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Danny, Experimental, Magical Shenanigans, Unknown narrator, fantasy but like industrial, get this: what if they... changed society..., jorel is grumpy, simultaneously sweet and terrifying danny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrackish/pseuds/babybrackish
Summary: It starts with three friends, a jail cell, and a person who may not be a person at all.(alternatively; the time they cause worldwide chaos to change some bullshit)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. introduction

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of child death, obviously referenced abuse (nothing major i swear!!)
> 
> i was like “eh i just wanna work on one fic for now” and then i was like no actually let’s do 2 at once sO. here you go

It starts with three friends, a jail cell, and a person who may not be a person at all.

That’s not the _official_ beginning, though, is it? Perhaps the official beginning would be in a poor little school for the common folk, when Dylan Alvarez and Jordon Terrell met each other and became immediate friends. Or maybe it was in a run-down house on the Sunset Roads, from which Aron Erlichman ran away and left his best friend, Jorel Decker, behind with their foster family. Or maybe it was when Dylan and Jordon encountered a lone Jorel stealing from the same store that _they_ were stealing from. Or maybe it was in an empty house, dusty and marred by cobwebs as the only living resident, George Ragan, abandoned it.

Maybe it was when Jordon Terrell tripped and fell into a fire pit and didn’t feel even an inkling of a burn. Maybe it was the first time that Dylan Alvarez vanished into thin air, or the first time he slept without sleeping. Maybe it was the brief moment that Jorel Decker thought he heard a tree whisper to him, or the moment he thought a cat was spying on him. Maybe it was in a makeshift home set near someone’s birthplace, when George Ragan lifted his hand and watched blue and white light twist around it.

Maybe the official beginning was hundreds of years ago, when those in power first turned twisted and corrupt. Maybe it was their decision to persecute magic-havers and the effects of that decision even when it was over. Maybe it’s the way the darkness still dwells up there.

Or maybe the official beginning was when a baby boy named Daniel Murillo was born, and his town crucified his mother for witchcraft only three days later. Or maybe it was the mistake the town leader made when she chose to abandon little Daniel in the woods to die instead of killing him herself.

Still, none of those beginnings are _our_ beginning. _Our_ beginning starts with a _bang._

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon yelps, jumping to hide behind the counter as the glass hits the wall, a bang echoing through the tavern as his chair hits the floor.

 _“I’M SICK OF YOU BASTARDS!”_ Jeff roars, waving a gun in Jorel’s direction. Jorel looks at him impassively, one brow raised in challenge. He figures that if Jeff hasn’t shot them yet, he certainly isn’t going to _now._ “You’re always fucking shit up!”

“Man, put the gun down,” Dylan snaps, leaning forward to snatch it out of Jeff’s hand. Jeff lets out an enraged squawk. Dylan looks at where Jordon is crouched behind the counter. “The safety isn’t even off, dude, it’s fine.”

“The safety isn’t off?!” Jeff shouts. “Of course it’s off!”

“No, it isn’t,” Dylan says, a petulant whine to his voice. 

“Whatever,” Jeff growls, pushing his hand through his hair. _“Look_ at him!” He jabs a finger towards the fat, bulky man sprawled unconscious on the ground, sharp red lines imprinted on his bloodied face.

“We get into bar fights all the time,” Jordon notes as he finally rises from behind the counter, looking towards the man and wincing. 

“That’s the problem!” Jeff shouts. He whirls around, punching the air as he goes. “You stupid bastards, you don’t just steal a diamond and then fucking _break someone’s nose_ with it!”

They blink in unison, looking towards the chunk of rock abandoned on one of the tables, its glittering surface marred by sticky, drying blood.

“Ah, shit,” Dylan breathes. 

“I think we’ve ruined the value of that,” Jordon says slowly.

Jeff roars, slamming his fist on the counter. _“That’s_ what you care about?!”

Jorel crosses his arms. “Look -” 

_“Get out of my tavern!”_

Dylan winces but shuffles towards Jorel. Jordon swings himself over the counter, moving to snatch the diamond from the table. He grimaces at the feeling of coagulating blood pressing against his palm but says nothing, moving to the other guys as their unfortunate victim begins to wake up.

“Sorry, Jeff,” Jordon mumbles as the three of them shuffle out the door, though Jorel throws Jeff a nasty look over his shoulder.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George knew they would catch him eventually, whether sooner or later, but he had hoped it would be at least another day until they got him. The effects of the Magic Purge so many years ago still linger, no matter how long it’s been. They linger so strongly you could almost taste it. 

The residents of Lywood would agree with him, if their DIY hanging platforms say anything.

George keeps his little makeshift shelter on a shore of the Butterfly Lake. It’s inconspicuous enough; hundreds of homeless people and travelers have taken residence on the lake’s shores. Nobody ever questions him, or approaches him, so he’s stayed there simply because it’s safe.

Of course, everyone makes mistakes. George’s is the funeral.

Someone dies, of course, because that’s how funerals happen. It happens in the region closest to George. They open the funeral to the public; a common tradition for anyone who dies without many loved ones. George usually never goes to those funerals. It’s far too risky. It’s better to pay his respects from afar than to throw all his precautions to the wind.

But this time is different. This time the mourned was just a lonely ten-year old girl, and George can’t find it in him not to give that little girl some form of support even after her death. 

So he goes to the funeral. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not really a mistake to him. He thinks he’d regret it more if he hadn’t gone.

But it’s bad luck. Of course the only one of the public funerals he goes to has to be for a magic-haver. Of course he never knows until it’s too late.

He only knows when he feels it push at his body, his eyes widening as it slips beneath his skin and into his veins.

And then before he can even try to stop it, his hands are alight with vibrant blue electricity and everyone’s eyes are on him.

He runs. He can’t fight, because then there would be absolutely no chance of him surviving. 

Unless he killed them instead.

He doesn’t want to kill them.

They catch him regardless of how fast he runs. He doesn’t fight when they cuff him, though he does try to bite them when they force magic suppressants down his throat. 

He’s just fed up now. He was just trying to be there for a little girl. He spits the potion back in their faces.

They throw him into a cell, a woman sneering at him as a man announces that he’s due to be hung by night.

They leave him there to wait.

George groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’s so sick of this.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


See, Danny doesn’t like hurting people, but he does like helping. He may be a monster, but at his core he’s a helper. He cares about _justice._

So when he hears the sound of a woman screaming, a man shouting, Danny knows he’s needed.

He rushes down the dirt road, cloak streaming behind him as the night flies past him, bunches of stars scattered across the sky.

He slides to a stop, flexing his fingers in preparation.

The woman is cowering on the ground as the man towers over her, flailing his fists and roaring, and Danny’s jaw twists. The woman is terrified, crawling back in panic.

“Hey!” Danny shouts, rage bubbling in his veins. The woman starts, the man whirling around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“None of your goddamn business!” the man shouts. The woman flinches. “Go away!”

Danny growls. “You leave her alone.”

“I said,” the man says, stepping towards Danny slowly, threat written in every line of his body, _“it’s none of your goddamn business._ Now move the fuck along.”

Danny looks to the woman on the ground. Back to the man.

Oh, yes. This man deserves it. 

Danny tugs his hood down. He lets go.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon’s mistake is that he slips the diamond into his pocket. 

He sees the error of his ways quickly.

Dylan’s arm is looped around Jorel’s shoulders as he jabbers into his ears. Jorel sighs every time Dylan opens his mouth, but he nods along anyway. They all tense as a small group of lawkeepers begins to pass them.

“Afternoon,” one says to Jorel and Dylan with a nod, right as Jordon trips and collides into her.

The bloodied diamond falls from his pocket, crashing to the earth.

Time seems to freeze.

The lawkeeper turns disbelieving eyes on the diamond, then on him.

Shit.

As she opens her mouth to question him, hand moving to her handcuffs, he panics.

He curls his own hand into a fist and drives it into her face.

Time snaps back to normal.

She hits the dirt. One of the other lawkeepers shouts and draws his gun. Jordon snatches the diamond from the dirt, leaping forward to crash into the man’s legs. They go down together.

Jorel pulls his knife from his pocket, darting forward to slash at the third lawkeeper as she draws her gun. She whirls around, and then the barrel is in his face but Dylan is leaping forward, knocking it from her hands and backhanding her. Dylan darts around Jorel to race towards Jordon.

The first lawkeeper grips Dylan’s ankle as he goes. He kicks out, catching her in the face. She scrambles to grab her gun. Dylan stomps down on her hand, grinding it into the dirt, jumping away at her scream and the sound of her bones crunching. Shit shit shit he didn’t mean to press that hard. 

The man knees Jordon in the stomach, prompting a loud groan, and Dylan leaps down to slam his fist against the man’s head.

The other woman swings her fist at Jorel, a blunt, searing pain in his jaw as her fist catches it. He drives his knife into her shoulder. She gasps as hot blood spurts out, coating his fingertips. He twists it, pulling a scream from her, before pulling it out and pushing her to the ground.

Dylan flings the man across the road, eyes widening when his head cracks against the ground. Jorel races forward, taking hold of Dylan’s shirt and pulling. “Run!”

They take off together, Jordon stumbling along as the lawkeepers struggle to recover. The one that Jorel stabbed snatches her gun from the dirt, pointing it in their general direction and squeezing the trigger. With a loud _BANG,_ it hits the dirt near Jordon’s foot.

“Keep running!” Dylan shouts.

They disappear into the trees as the woman stumbles forward with one bloody hand pressed to her shoulder, her hand shaking as she shoots after them.

Welp.

That’s another town they won’t be showing their face in for a while.


	2. caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe a better way to word it would be "it starts with three idiots".

It’s hard to gauge the value of a diamond when it’s covered in sticky, dried blood that you can only peel off in flakes. 

Jorel scowls down at the diamond as he tries to scrub the blood off in the sink. They’ve taken residence in a little inn in Lywood; a risky maneuver considering the rumors that absolutely no one here is sane, but sometimes fleeing lawkeepers requires going somewhere that no one’s willing to follow you to. 

Jorel douses the diamond in another round of foamy soap, massaging it with his hands. The blood flakes are rubbing off on his skin and between his fingers, but he’s pretty sure that his attempts to clean it with the towel just resulted in scratching it. Save for the little flakes peeling off like paint, the diamond remains plastered with blood. Jorel growls.

The door flies open, prompting a jump and a glare from Jorel as Dylan bursts in.

“Got us some foodies,” Dylan says, three plates stacked carefully in his arms: two steaks and a veggie dish. He slides them onto the table. 

“Thanks,” Jorel mutters as he returns his attention to the diamond. Dylan stares at him before shrugging and pulling one of the steaks towards himself.

Jorel rubs the diamond harder as Dylan’s fork clinks against his plate. The blood refuses to come off. Jorel sighs, frustration tugging at him as he shuts the sink off and puts the diamond on the towel spread across the counter. He shakes off his wet hands and turns to the table.

Dylan stares blankly into the distance, absently chewing his steak. Jorel shakes his head and sits down, reaching for the veggie dish and pulling it towards him. They eat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until Jordon returns halfway through their meal, a bottle of vinegar clutched in his hand.

“There you are!” Dylan says through a mouthful of steak. He gestures towards the third plate. “Got us some food.”

“Hell yeah, bro.” Jordon turns to Jorel, holding up the vinegar. “This might help with the blood problem.”

Jorel’s fork stops halfway to his mouth, his brow furrowing. “Is vinegar safe for diamonds?”

Jordon snorts. “It better be,” he says as he shuffles over to the pack thrown on their room’s single bed. He flips the pack open, rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out a little bowl. “Shall we?” he says to Jorel. He plops down onto the floor, setting his things down.

Jorel abandons his half-eaten meal, moving to the counter to retrieve the bloody diamond. He sits down next to Jordon, watching Jordon twist the cap of the bottle off and slowly fill the bowl with pungent vinegar. Dylan doesn’t pause in his own meal, simply watching them as he chews his steak. 

Jorel places the diamond in the bowl, making a face when vinegar clings to his fingertips. Jordon swirls the bowl with a thump of satisfaction as the liquid swishes and the diamond clinks. He gets to his feet and places the bowl on the towel beside the sink.

“Now eat ‘fore your steak gets cold,” Dylan says, gesturing with his fork to the plate beside him

Jordon grins, taking Jorel by the arm and pulling him towards the table. Jorel gives him a suspicious look but allows himself to be tugged along. He’s still not used to this.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The abuser’s face goes white with terror. He screams, attempting to dart away, but Danny’s on his back quickly enough, pressing him to the ground. 

He rolls the man over, ignoring his flailing fists. He snarls, his saliva dripping down to the man’s face. He digs claws into the man’s sides and _pulls._

Two shallow gashes rip open down the abuser’s sides. He screams like he’s being murdered. He isn’t. He thrashes beneath Danny, howling and slamming his arms against the ground. 

Danny snaps his teeth in the man’s face before he releases him, rolling off his limp body and getting to his feet. The abuser squeals and twists to drag himself away, blubbering as he does.

Danny sucks his teeth back in, letting the normal ones pop back through his gums. He wipes thick black saliva away with one bloody hand and looks down at the man on the ground.

The abuser is still screaming, crimson blood flowing in rivulets to the grass. He thinks he’s going to die. He isn’t. 

Danny steps forward and digs his heel into the man’s back, pinning him. He leans down, the abuser quieting as Danny’s face comes nearer. 

“Never hurt someone like that again,” Danny growls. “Understand?”

“Yes!” the abuser wails. Danny releases him, stepping back.

He looks at the woman. She’s staring at him, gaunt, her skin pale with fear, looking as though she’s on the verge of passing out. He stares back.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

His heart starts to pound. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“S - sorry,” he mumbles to her, and then he runs.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


No one knows who George Ragan is. Very few people even know his name.

He’s lived on the shores of the Butterfly Lake for several months now, though the most that anyone’s gotten from him in that span of time are the words “Have a good day.”

And still those who know his name don’t know who George Ragan is. He says nothing of his life or himself, nothing to indicate any existence outside of the Butterfly Lake. Those who have attempted any research into him have only turned up the fact that there are absolutely _no_ public records for George Arthur Ragan. Not so much as a birth certificate. 

By all means, George Ragan doesn’t even exist.

So perhaps it was reasonable for the residents of Lywood to be suspicious of the mysterious man on the beach in the first place. According to the jail wardens, most of the homeless on that beach are willing to divulge information about themselves if so asked. What makes this man so different?

“The obvious answer,” someone shouts from the jail office, “is _magic.”_ As if Lywood isn’t the crime capital of the world.

It isn’t far from the truth, George supposes as he stares at the hard, cold floor of his cell. But raging persecutors like those in Lywood would never grasp the full truth of it. If George were to tell them that there was a way he could’ve been different they’d simply try to bleed the magic out of him.

George has seen a bleeding before. He won’t let that happen to him.

“Here you go, pig,” the guard says as she pushes a tray of fake-looking chicken through the food slot. “Enjoy your last meal.” She turns to leave, pausing only to scowl at him and mutter, “How sick do you have to be to bring magic to a child’s funeral?”

George says nothing. She wouldn’t believe him if he told her it wasn’t his. She’d just be offended if he pointed out that at least _he_ actually came to the child’s funeral.

He watches the guard go with numb, apathetic eyes.

He turns his gaze back to the floor, and he cannot find it in him to be afraid of the death that’s coming.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like this,” Jorel says as he holds the diamond to the light, Dylan and Jordon crowding around him. He tries not to growl at the proximity.

The blood on the diamond is blotchy and irregular now, little traces of pink dotting the clean areas. The diamond feels much rougher now.

“I’m starting to think this isn’t even a real diamond,” Jordon says.

Jorel growls, dropping the diamond into the empty bowl. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Chill out, dude,” Dylan says with a frown. “We’ll find something else.” Jordon nods.

“Today,” Jorel says, twisting to glare between the two of them. “We look for something else today.”

Dylan crosses his arms, looking to Jordon. “Well,” Jordon says, “there’s a jewelry shop nearby. Pretty small and probably not very well-guarded, but all the shit in it combined should be worth the same as that diamond.”

Jorel looks to Dylan. Dylan nods.

“Then let’s go,” Jorel says, brushing his hands on his jacket.

“Right,” Jordon says, “let’s prepare, I guess.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny has no home, but he doesn’t mind wandering too much. He likes seeing new faces, visiting new locations. And sometimes it helps to get away from the bad things you’ve done, like when you’ve scared a woman who was already terrified out of her mind.

He makes it to a little Lywood town called The Ditches in the morning. It’s rundown and grimy, but Danny finds an odd sort of beauty in it anyway. Every place is so beautiful to him.

There’s a small library on the outskirts of the town. There’s a worn sign bolted in front of it, with a painting of someone sitting and reading to a group of kids crowded around them. The words on the sign read _“SUPPORT OUR LOCAL ORPHANAGE! COME READ TO THE KIDS! EVERY DAY 12 - 1:30.”_

Danny slips inside and heads for a little desk where a harried-looking woman sits, her hair pulled into the semblance of a bun, locks of hair falling down around her face, her glasses knocked askew. 

“Hi,” he says.

The woman blinks, looking away from the clipboard in front of her. “Oh! Hello,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“On the sign outside, you said you want people to come read to the kids,” he says. “Is that still open? I’d like to read to them.”

The woman’s shoulders slump with relief. “Oh, you’d like to - oh, good! Oh, good. No one else has taken us up on it.” She beams at him, worry lines scrunching on her forehead. “The kids will be here in just a bit.” She pushes herself up. “Let me show you the book you’re reading today.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The stigma against magic started long before George was born. The Magic Purge had resulted in the deaths of millions of people, leaving the world torn between those who support magic-havers and those who continue to persecute them. Even in places where magic is legal, there’s always going to be someone ready to kill you.

Lywood has been notorious from the beginning for its shoddy defenses against crime. Even when George was a child he knew that if you wanted to murder someone, you should do it in Lywood.

Still, he’d chosen to come here anyway. Even for its weak stance against crime and violence, it does still have some perks. One being the fact that no one asks questions unless you’re presently in jail. No matter how much they claim to be on top of things, no authority in Lywood will ever be close to even a semblance of a good one. He could drench his beach shelter in lantern fuel and nobody would wonder why until he actually set it on fire.

George continues to stare at the corner of his cell, lost in his thoughts. His tray of food lays abandoned on the stone floor. He has no desire to eat.

A wave of nausea rolls in his stomach, bile pressing at the base of his throat as the magic suppressant disturbs his stomach. He groans and leans his head against the wall. 

He should’ve fought back. He’s going to die anyway.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


They move slowly to the jewelry shop, Jordon’s hand held in his pocket to clutch his gun.

“Y’all sure you’re ready for this?” Dylan asks as he ties his hair back, his mallet strapped to his hip.

“It won’t be hard,” Jordon says. “It’s a small place.”

“Okay,” Dylan says uncertainly, gut tight. He has a bad feeling about this.

They slip into the jewelry shop silently. A man looks up at them and offers a smile. The shop is empty save for them.

Normally, sneaky stealing is their method of choice with most things; just slip it into your coat and leave silently. But jewelry is another matter, so Jordon thinks he’s justified in his decision to pull out his gun and point at the man’s head.

The man’s eyes go round and afraid, and he holds his hands up like he can block the bullet. Making people think he’s going to kill them when he has no intention of doing so makes Jordon feel awful. He grits his teeth and tries to bear with it.

“Just let us grab your shit and we’ll be on our way,” Jordon says slowly as Dylan and Jorel begin to scour the shop, Jorel’s knife clutched in one hand. The man nods, a choked noise escaping him. He flinches at the sound of glass shattering as Dylan breaks into one of the display cases, swiping the jewelry inside. 

The bell on the shop door rings. There’s a small gasp.

Shit. 

Dylan whirls around, watching with wide eyes as a woman bolts from the shop. Dylan drops the jewelry and takes off after her, panic thrumming through him. The woman screams, shouting _“HELP! ROBBERY! HELP!”_

He catches up to her and launches himself at her, knocking her hard to the ground. She slams against the dirt with a groan, her head cracking against the soil. Dylan rolls off of her, panicking even harder now, and spots the lawkeepers racing towards him.

Shit.

He jumps to his feet, whirling around and racing back to the shop with the lawkeepers screaming after him, drawing their own guns. Dylan bursts back into the shop. “We gotta go!”

Jorel hurriedly gathers his bag as Jordon backs away from the man at the counter. “Go, go, go!” Dylan shouts as they rush from the shop together, Jordon keeping one eye on the man as he does. He twists around to join Dylan and Jorel.

“Law! Freeze!” someone howls behind them. They push on regardless.

Jordon stumbles, losing his footing. “Fuck!”

Dylan and Jorel whirl around to help him, their eyes going wide when the lawkeepers reach him first. “Jordon!” Dylan shouts as Jordon turns around. The lawkeeper strikes him over the head with their gun. Jordon goes down like a sack of potatoes.

“Shit,” Dylan hisses. He looks at the swarm of lawkeepers approaching them. There’s at least ten. _“Shit.”_ Biting his lip and looking at Jordon with worried eyes, he grips Jorel’s arm and turns back around.

“Wha - but - Jordon!” Jorel sputters. 

“I know!” Dylan cries. “I know, I know, we’ll come back for him! He’ll be okay, just come on, we’ll get him!”

They run together as the lawkeepers continue after them, two dragging Jordon to their caravan. Dylan knows they’re gonna die if they try to fight here. They’ll hide, gather their things, and then sneak in and break him out. Jordon will be fine. He’ll be fine.

Except the lawkeepers here are insane. Maybe they’ll hang him.

Ah, fuck, they need to get him fast.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon wakes up in a jail cell.

He peels his eyes open, blinking and looking around. He pushes himself up with a groan. Fuck, his head hurts.

“You good?”

Jordon flinches, glancing around.

In the cell beside his, a large man is sitting huddled in the corner, resting his chin on one butterfly tattoo-covered hand as he watches Jordon. Jordon blinks. 

“Uh, hi,” he says.

The man raises a brow. “Hi.”

Jordon stares at him, trying to think of something to say. “Uh… I’m Jordon.”

The man blinks. “George.”

“So, uh… what are you in for?”

George sighs, leaning against the wall. He looks out through the bars, his eyes dead. “Magic.”

“Oh.” Despite himself, curiosity bubbles in Jordon’s veins. The only magic-haver he’s known is his sister. “What kind of magic?”

George’s face scrunches. “Not mine,” he says dully, and he says nothing else.

Well, that was disappointing. 

Jordon looks around, searching for Dylan and Jorel. There’s no sign of them. His heart tugs a bit. He hopes they’re okay.

“So, I guess we’re gonna be here for a while, huh?” Jordon asks, turning back to George.

George shrugs. “I’ll be hung tonight.”

“Oh.” Jordon stares at him. The poor guy looks miserable, dark shadows beneath his eyes and an exhausted frown on his face. Jordon tries to think of something to lighten the mood. Maybe a shitty pick-up line. “So, uh… you look familiar.”

George’s eyes slide back to him. He stares blankly at Jordon for a moment before speaking in the most serious tone he could possibly use for this. “Ah, yes,” George says, “I believe we’ve made love before.”

Jordon stares. George stares back.

George’s lips quirk with amusement.

Jordon bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach as his face seems to split. “Okay,” he chokes out through his laughter. He lets his laughter die down to goofy chuckles before grinning at George. “You’re cool, dude.”

George laughs a bit. “It’d be nice if the lawkeepers thought so.” Smile slipping from his face, he looks back out through the bars, face sad once more.

Jordon bites his lip, falling silent. _I’ll be hung tonight._ He doesn’t want this guy to die. He imagines his sister in George’s position, a rope wrapped around her neck, hung for her magic. His stomach burns. He wouldn’t want that to happen to her. He doesn’t want that to happen to this guy. 

He looks at George and feels a little sick. He doesn’t want him to die. Not for his magic. That’s not fair.

He remembers falling into a pit of coals. He shuts the memory out and looks out through the bars of his cell.

He hopes Dylan and Jorel come back for him soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do not know how vinegar would actually effect a diamond. take it anyway


	3. the start of something great

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it doesn’t go the way they wanted, but it goes the way it should.

There are many things that Danny would never claim to know. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have parents, or what it’s like to have a birthday party, or what it’s like to ride a train. He doesn’t even know what it’s like to have a friend, or how to make one.

But one thing he knows - one thing he’s  _ always  _ known - is that there is no anti-magic person on earth that is inherently better than a magic-haver. He learned that young, and though he was taught with a cruel lesson, maybe it was a necessary one.

Those in power claim that they are no longer persecuting magic-havers, yet they turn a blind eye to the scum of Lywood and let any other stray persecutors off the hook. They oppress and they blame and they feed a hateful, hateful world. 

And Danny knows the consequences of it. It killed his mother, left her pinned to a cross to bleed out. It left him abandoned in the woods as a helpless infant. It drove a woman to the point of mass murder. It hammers fear into the heart of society itself. Danny knows the consequences.

So when he hears that a man is due to be hung by night after outing himself as a magic-haver, Danny could almost describe the feeling that comes as  _ blind fury,  _ only a little less blind because he’s still mellowed from reading to the kids.

He purses his lips and looks into the eyes of the library assistant who’d told him, her hair done up in an elegant braid. They’re at a round table, the children having left only a few minutes ago.

“That’s happening tonight?” Danny asks, struggling to keep his voice under control as his vision fuzzes with red.

“Yeah,” the assistant says. She glances around before leaning towards him and whispering, “If you ask me, it’s a little sad. This guy’s lived at the Butterfly Lake for so long. It’ll be weird not to see him around anymore.”

Nothing about magic, or the lawkeepers’ decision. Nothing about the injustice of it, the unfairness. Danny wants to snap his teeth.

“And, uh…” He licks his lips, skin hot and twitchy. “Where are they hanging him?”

“The Ditches only has one hanging platform,” she says. “On the east side, near the farewell sign.”

“Okay,” he says, “thank you.”

She sighs, eyes sad. “You gonna go watch?”

He pushes himself to his feet. “...Something like that.”

“Maybe you can say bye for me? Tell him that I care? I can’t handle watching the hanging myself.”

He pauses, one eye on his pack in the corner. “...Yeah,” he says, “yeah, sure.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon’s arrest (kidnapping, really, in Jorel’s opinion) is far more distressing to Jorel than he thought it would be. Jordon and Dylan had latched onto him fairly quickly, but he’d made it a point to try keeping himself as distant and detached from them as possible.

That plan doesn’t seem to be going too well, unfortunately.

Maybe he’s just lonely. He hasn’t had a friend since Aron, much less two people that had just gotten  _ excited _ when they saw him stealing. He’s not attached to them. He still doesn’t trust them. Hell, he barely knows them. 

But god _ damnit,  _ someone finally  _ sees  _ him and  _ wants  _ him and he doesn’t want to fucking lose that.

He just wants a friend again.

“You okay, dude?” Dylan asks, peering at him with big, worried eyes, one hand poised over his stack of papers.

“Fine,” Jorel snaps, and then immediately curses himself for it.

“Alright,” Dylan says hesitantly. He turns his attention back to the papers. “So Jordon’s in The Ditches’ county jail.” He bites his lip. “There’s a hanging tonight. We, uh… we could try to slip him out while that happens.” His voice is distant, reluctant.

Jorel frowns. He’s never liked the thought of hangings. Deciding who gets to live and die seems like a wicked game. “...What’s the hanging for?”

“Guy’s a magic-haver.” Dylan looks towards Jorel, a guarded look in his eyes. “That’s, uh… that’s it.”

Jorel’s hackles rise. What the  _ fuck  _ is everyone’s problem with magic? Aron’s mom and sister had been magic-havers and they were kinder to him than the majority of anti-magic people.

Oh, great, now he’s thinking of Aron again. Of course.

“We’re not gonna let him hang, are we?” Jorel asks through grit teeth. ”We better not.” And something like relief crosses Dylan’s face. 

“I don’t wanna let him hang, no,” Dylan says. He runs a hand through his hair. “I was thinking… maybe we could use the opening speech for one of us to break Jordon out and the other one to start causing a scene? And then just… try to make shit as messy as possible. Like a distraction. And then one of us three can get up and get him out.”

Jorel stares at him. He’s… not sure that would work. “Yeah… I don’t think that’s a good plan.”

Dylan huffs, his face turning pouty quickly. “Well, do you have a better one?”

Jorel tries to think. “I -” He pauses. Dylan watches him smugly. Jorel crosses his arms. “No,” he mutters. 

“Then we go with mine,” Dylan says. 

“Fine.” Jorel huffs. “But if we die, you’re gonna have to pay restitution.”

Dylan stares at him. “H… how am I gonna do that if I’m dead?”

Jorel smirks. “You’ll figure it out.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George’s mother wouldn’t be pleased with him. She’d always warned him, always told him to keep his head down and stay away from people, to  _ never  _ go to funerals or hospitals, that any slip-up could lead to his persecution. If she found out that he’d broken their precautions just because he felt sad for someone, she’d have his hide.

_ Sorry, mother,  _ he thinks, in the chances that maybe she is watching over him. Part of him hopes that she isn’t.

“So,” Jordon says, his back aching as he presses it against the wall of his cell. Not that there’s anywhere more comfortable to stay. George turns to look at Jordon, his own hands folded in his lap. “Y’know, my little sister has magic, too.”

George lifts his head up at that, his eyes bright with intrigue. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Jordon remembers smoke curling around Natalie’s hands as she drew fire into their little fire pit, and despite the context of magic-havers’ place in society, there’s a swell of pride in his chest. “Fire ‘n shit. It’s pretty cool, honestly. She’s cool.”

There’s a warm feeling in George’s chest, and he knows that it’s a blessing to spend his last few hours finally having a conversation with someone. A pleasant one, at that. “So, do you… support magic?” he asks, a little knot of hope in his stomach.

Jordon shrugs. “Well, my sister’s a great person and magic-havers definitely don’t deserve the shit they get. It’s not fair, y’know.”

George almost wants to cry. Whatever mechanism of the universe decided to let him have a  _ conversation _ and have it with someone  _ good,  _ he could never thank it enough. 

Maybe he won’t die lonely.

“Thank you,” George murmurs. Jordon blinks at him. “For not condemning us.”

Jordon’s face softens slightly, and he looks away, awkward. This is too emotional for him. He bites his lip. “Kinda sucks you’re gonna die, man,” he says, struggling to keep his tone light. “You seem pretty cool.”

George sighs, heavy. “It’s okay. It was going to happen eventually. I’m not afraid.” Truly, sadness and fear are such different things.

“Right,” Jordon says, and they fall silent again.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


So maybe Dylan’s stake in “rescue the magic-haver” is more personal than he would like Jordon or Jorel to believe.  _ Maybe  _ he’s had a moment or two where he’s been worried for his own status as a normal person.

Maybe Dylan once tripped and fell and was so terrified of hitting the ground that he dissolved into nothing and resurfaced high up on a tree branch. Maybe Dylan once looked into the mirror and went inside his body and pressed so hard from the inside out that he could see the shadow stretching across his skin. Maybe Dylan once woke only to look down at his own sleeping body and panic when he remembered that astral projection was something only found in people with magic.

Yes, there’s always the possibility that maybe Dylan has… stronger feelings about this.

But it doesn’t matter anyway, because Jorel doesn’t want the guy to hang either, and there’s no reason for Dylan to lay all his feelings out on the table. There’s no convincing needed. No big reveal. Thank God.

“So how are we doing this?” Jorel asks, sprawled on the counter like a cat, his legs dangling. 

“Right,” Dylan says as he ties his hair back. “We’ll slip into the jailhouse together, take out any lawkeepers left, and then you get to work on breaking Jordon out. I’ll go and do the chaos-causing.”

“What are you gonna do?” Jorel asks, though one eye is already on the bottles of lantern fuel piled in the corner, like he knows where Dylan’s going with this.

“Easy. I set shit on fire. Scatter the crowd. When the lawkeepers start freaking out, I’ll try to distract them. Y’all need to come help me as soon as you get Jordon out.”

Jorel takes a deep breath. “We got this?”

Dylan nods, lips set in a firm line. “We got this.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel and Dylan arrive by the time the noose is set up, the crowd forming at the base of the platform, insults already prepared at the backs of their tongues as they wait for the filthy magic-haver to be brought out. 

It makes Jorel sick.

“Come on,” Dylan whispers as they finish dragging bags of feed off to the side of the platform, into the tall grass, throwing glances up at the setting sun, both of them robed in black with bandanas pulled up over their mouths and noses. They drop their pack, making sure that none of the bottles inside have spilled, before scurrying towards the jailhouse.

“Ready?” Dylan breathes as they press themselves against the side entrance, watching as two lawkeepers haul a large man through the front entrance, towards the hanging platform. Jorel growls, turning to Dylan with a solemn nod.

They fling the door open, crashing inside. The woman at the desk looks up at them, eyes wide. Dylan withdraws his mallet and flips it in his hand.

“What is thi -”

Dylan strikes the hilt against her temple, watching her crumple to the ground. 

“Get Jordon!” Dylan whispers to Jorel as he hurries from the jailhouse, and Jorel starts down the corridor.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny makes sure his things are secure in his pack before dropping it a short ways away from the jailhouse, withdrawing his crossbow and strapping it to his back. He secures his extra bolts to his hip.

He pulls his hood over his head.

He can hear the crowd jeering and shouting even from here, calling for blood, for death. The anger boils in his veins. He can feel the weight of the crossbow on his back.

Crossbows take so long to reload.

But he can’t let go this time. He scared the woman so badly. He needs to not be a monster, just for now. He doesn’t want to scare someone who already thinks they’re going to die.

With a deep breath, he starts towards the jailhouse.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“It’s time,” the warden announces as she stomps down the row of cells towards George, another lawkeeper in tow. Jordon looks up at her with big eyes, his breath catching.

No. 

“Don’t kill him!” Jordon cries, leaping to his feet. The lawkeepers glare at him. “Please don’t kill him!”

“Shut up, pig,” the warden snarls. “You’re in no place to be making demands.”

“It’s okay, Jordon,” George says dully as they unlock his cell. “It’s alright.”

Jordon watches them haul George away as he rattles at the bars. “Stop it! Don’t kill him!” 

He rattles the bars so hard he doesn’t even hear the other approach.

“George!” he calls, panic eroding his senses.

“Jordon.”

Jordon shrieks and whips around. Jorel’s unamused face stares back at him. Jorel slips his dagger into his pocket and withdraws his lock picking tools. He begins to hurriedly work at Jordon’s lock.

Jordon has no idea what’s happening. “I - wha -”

“Dylan’s trying to distract the lawkeepers so we can rescue the dude they’re hanging,” Jorel says simply, jimmying the lock. “Get ready to fight.”

“What -”

“Try to keep up,” Jorel says, drawing his second dagger from his pocket and passing it to Jordon. He ignores Jordon’s shock as the lock clicks open. “Come on.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan rushes back to the feed, his heart pounding as he struggles to strap the mallet back on his hip. He slides to a stop, throwing a look towards where the executioner is preaching on the platform, the noose in his hand. Dylan tugs the pack open and begins to pull the bottles of lantern fuel out. Come on. Come on, come on, hurry.

He uncaps the lantern fuel, tipping it over and pouring it across the feed. He repeats it with every bottle; uncap and pour, uncap and pour, uncap and pour, until his gloves’ fingertips are slick with fuel.

He withdraws the matchbox from his pocket, hurrying backwards, away from the fuel-soaked feed. He throws fervent glances towards the hanging platform, the hangee standing stock-still as the crowd jeers, the executioner shouting out, “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to this man?!”

Dylan strikes the match against the box and tosses it. The shadows engulf him, pulling him away as the feed goes up in flames.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The crowd screams as the fire whips through the tall grass, a blazing inferno. They scatter without a thought, now calling for the safety of their own lives.

The lawkeepers jolt, the executioner accidentally tugging at the noose in his shock, prompting a loud choking noise from George.

“Come on!” Jorel shouts to Jordon as they push past the fleeing crowd, their eyes fixed on the man on the platform, the rope still wrapped around his throat.

Dylan slips out from the shadows beneath the hanging platform, a lawkeeper’s stunned face staring back at him as he emerges. He slides the mallet from his hip and swings without hesitation, striking them dead in the chest. They go down with a  _ crack. _

Even amidst the flames and heat and the shock, it only takes a second for the other lawkeepers to spot him.

Then hell  _ really  _ breaks loose.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


By the time Danny arrives, it’s a mass of people and fire, a man still standing on the platform with a noose tied around his neck, shock written clearly on his face even from this distance. 

The lawkeepers are swarming on the ground, but not fleeing or fighting the fire. Perplexed, Danny watches for a moment until he spots the forms of three people, fighting the lawkeepers tooth and nail. But there are far more lawkeepers than fighters, and Danny doesn’t think they’ll win like this.

Mind made up before he’s even finished processing the scene, Danny draws the crossbow from his back and takes aim.

He squeezes the trigger.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The lawkeeper screams as an arrow cuts clean through her thigh. Jorel looks up from where he’s digging his dagger into her shoulder blade, his eyes wide.

Standing at the edge of the wreckage is a hooded figure, a crossbow gripped in their hands. For a second Jorel thinks they intended to aim for him, but then the figure turns and fires at someone else, and another lawkeeper goes down.

There’s a lash on Jorel’s back. Whirling around, he drives his dagger into the arm of a grimy lawkeeper, taking a sick sort of satisfaction from the lawkeeper’s cry. 

“Jorel!” Jordon shouts, and Jorel tears the dagger from the lawkeeper’s arm, pushing them away as he whirls back around. Jordon is attempting to fend off two lawkeepers, hacking at the air with his dagger. Jorel races towards him, flicking another dagger out of his sleeve.

_ (Keep three daggers on you at all times, Jorel had said. That’s silly, Dylan and Jordon had said.)  _ Surprise surprise, fuckers, Jorel was right after all. 

He drives the daggers into the lawkeepers’ backs.

Dylan leaps out of the range of a lawkeeper’s fist, flicks through the shadows to where one is attempting to put out the fire. He reels his arms back. They turn with big eyes, mouth opening as the mallet crashes into their shoulder. They scream as it dislocates.

“Out of the way!” someone shouts, and Dylan rears the mallet back again at the sight of a hooded stranger.

But the stranger barges past him, shooting an arrow into a lawkeeper’s arm before shifting their crossbow to one hand and leaping to grip the edge of the platform, pulling themself up. 

Dylan watches, stunned, as the person literally jumps onto the hangee, the stranger bracing themself with one foot on the shocked man’s hip as they pull out a knife and begin to saw at the rope.

Dylan’s own surprise is cut short by a fist to the face. 

Dylan snarls and leaps back, swinging his mallet and knocking them to the ground. 

It’s then that he catches sight of the barrels.

They’re pressed up against the wall of the jailhouse, and the fire is creeping quickly towards them, and while Dylan doesn’t know what’s in those barrels he’s read enough action-romance to know that it can’t be anything good.

He slips into the shadows, tunneling through until he reaches the others. They don’t notice the absurdity of his appearance. 

_ “RUN!”  _ Dylan shrieks, right as the stranger finishes sawing through the noose, the rope snapping in their grip. They leap off of George, ignoring his stunned face, and turn to the jailhouse with a hiss. They turn back and push George along.

The lawkeepers catch on quickly, breaking the fight to take off running.  _ Cowards,  _ Jorel thinks.

The three of them race together away from the gallows, the hooded stranger pulling the bound, stumbling man along behind them.

The jailhouse explodes.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Mr. -”

“For the last time,” Truth snarls as he turns to face Yuma. “It’s  _ Truth.” _

Yuma winces, clutching his clipboard against his chest. “Sorry! Sorry, M - uh, Truth.”

Truth huffs. “What do you want?”

“Right, sir, um - there was a hanging scheduled a few hours ago, in The Ditches. A man performed magic at a girl’s funeral.”

Truth sneers. “Bastard’s dead now?”

Yuma shakes his head. Truth frowns. “No, actually, a fire was set near the jailhouse and a few unknown men attacked the lawkeepers.” He bites his lip. “They freed the magic-haver. They fled the scene right before the jailhouse exploded.”

Truth grits his teeth, rage boiling in his veins. “So the bastard’s alive. And he has accomplices?”

“Yes, sir, it would appear so, sir.”

Truth snarls. “Of course.” He sighs. “Tell Starr we’re putting more security on The Ditches’ gallows.”

Yuma purses his lips. “Right,” he mumbles. “Yes, sir.”

Truth narrows his eyes, bracing his fist on the desk. “Got something to say, Yuma?”

Yuma flinches, looking at him with wide eyes. “Well, I just -” he stutters. He pauses for a moment, rubbing at his face. “Do we  _ need _ to execute them?” he asks. “Can’t - can’t we just arrest them?”

Truth stares blankly at him. “Really, Yuma? That’s not how this works.” His tone is sharp, condescending. 

“It just doesn’t seem ri -”

“Yuma.” Yuma freezes at the threat in Truth’s voice. “I have permission from the government. They know what’s right and what’s not. I listen to them over you.”

Yuma grimaces, but backs down. “Right,” he murmurs, whiteknuckling his clipboard. “Right, I’ll let Starr know.”

“Good. Oh, and Yuma?” Yuma pauses in his attempt to leave, looking back at Truth. “Any word from your old pal Erlichman?”

Yuma blinks. “What? Aron? No.” His brow furrows. “Why?”

“Well, if you ever hear from him,” Truth says slowly, “make sure to let him know we always have positions open.”

Yuma stares back at him. He shakes his head, turning to grip the doorknob. “Right,” he says as he tugs the door open, his voice distant, “I’ll, uh… be sure to do that.” 

He leaves.


End file.
